


you were my new dream (and you were mine)

by keeper0fthestars



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Worship, Canon-Typical Violence, Declarations Of Love, Denial of Feelings, Domestic Fluff, Don't Judge Me, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Bad At Titles, Mandalorian AU, One-Shot, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Sleepy Cuddles, Smut, Soft!Mando, Unprotected Sex, cursing, did someone say shirtless!Din, din djarin is smitten, din djarin one-shot, mandalorian one-shot, mention of violence/injury/blood, oral sex fem receiving, so much soft Din, soft!Din, the helmet comes off when it's dark, touch-starved af, yes i used the tag line from Tangled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:27:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26436412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeper0fthestars/pseuds/keeper0fthestars
Summary: Din Djarin trusts no one. Well, except for you. But you don't know that. You have no idea how he really feels about you.
Relationships: Din Djarin x you - Relationship, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 58
Kudos: 394





	you were my new dream (and you were mine)

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU. This started out as a cute little blurb but then it possessed my soul for longer than I care to admit and became this beast. I do not know what happened. Be warned this is nothing but my self-indulgence in overdrive. i have no beta, all mistakes are my own. If you came here looking for accurate Mandalorian customs I’m sorry, this is just me projecting onto a fictional warrior with an affinity for beskar who pilots a pre-empire gunship :) I'm still sorta new at writing anything Star Wars, please give this a read and let me know what you think :)

It was better this way.

So what if he made your heart feel things that your mind couldn’t explain. So what if the salt of your decision dried on your cheeks as the freighter lifted into orbit. And hardened into something fragile and cold. Like a layer of new ice on a basin of water left outside overnight only to be easily snapped under the slightest pressure. Every hour you spent in the chill of hyperspace was one hour farther away from him. So what if you were a coward and couldn’t stick around to tell him in person on the off chance he’d show up again. You couldn’t keep hoping; couldn’t keep doing this. He was like the bad habit you had to break. No one knew you’d left and you couldn’t even think far enough ahead to decide where you’d go.

This was something you could control. This was better than watching him leave the warm sanctuary of your bed every time, watching him slowly pull his cape across his shoulders, re-sheath blades and buckle his rifle, watching him walk out the door, wondering when, or if he’d make it back to you. You knew the life he led, the choices he made, the uncertainty he faced. No amount of silent bargains with the galaxy was enough to quell the gnawing fear in your chest that his life could be snuffed out somewhere and you’d never know. There were no guarantees, no assurances. The imprint he’d leave behind in your bed wasn’t enough to keep him there. The space he filled in your heart wasn’t going to bring him back to you if the galaxy had different plans.

You were no stranger to bloodshed; no one was immune to the Empire’s line of fire if they so deemed it. When the Mandalorian came into your life five years ago, the inn you’d kept was entangled in the crossfire of an ambush. With his unexpected help that day, you’d managed to escape the chaos but only with the clothes on your back. You had no choice but to start over. Strangely enough, things seemed to settle down after that. By some coincidence, your life grew peaceful, comfortable even. As it so happened, this stoic, lone hunter drifted in and out of this quiet life of yours for the next few years. And you’d let him do it; maybe even welcomed it. But now that was in the past. If life had taught you anything, it was that jobs came and went, as did people, no one ever stayed, nothing lasted forever. It was better to cut the cord yourself than have it severed without warning.

You were not a needy person. You’d never clung to the notion that you might be special to him. Even if he was the only man that ever mattered to you. He’d never spoken about it, and you’d never dream of asking him. Emotions were dangerous; not a risk that Guild men take. Not even when he’d show up bruised and bleeding in the middle of the night and he’d collapse in your kitchen, his armoured head in your lap. Not even if you still carried the blaster he’d given you the day after you’d met. Yours had been destroyed when you lost the inn, and when you woke the next morning, there was a new one propped beside you. Astonished at its delicate weight, you’d marvelled at its precision time and time again. In truth, he’d never admitted to it but it wasn’t a stretch to assume that such a remarkable piece of hardware had come from the warrior who held the highest esteem and dignity for such things.

The first time you’d trusted him with your secrets was the night you’d heard his natural voice. Protected by the darkness as the single moon outside your window sank into the horizon, he’d given it to you freely, on the edge of your bed where you sat between his legs. That smooth deep decadence, uncovered just for you, took your breath away, like discovering a flawless gem at the bottom of the sea, where it sat timidly, miles and miles down, hidden from the world underneath crushing significance. Now safely cradled in your palm, it lured you in, mesmerizing. His smooth velvet baritone came with other things too. In the dead of night, he let you study the angles of his jaw and the shape of his nose; you catalogued the length of his hair, the softness of his lips and the delightful dimple in his cheek when he smiled. The gentle slant of his tongue and drag of his teeth as he tasted you. The satisfied hum, deep and hungry, as his mouth travelled from your jaw down to your neck, then eagerly back to your mouth. The soft breathy moan when you raked your hands through his hair and tasted him back, the way his brows knit together and his jaw clenched when he ended up beneath you, whimpering your name. You knew that none of it would be yours, but it didn’t stop you from risking everything just to witness its beauty again and again.

That was also the night he’d finally tasted himself on your tongue. The ravenous fury that followed when he could not get enough of it only led to you waking up later that night with his hair tangled between your fingers and his wicked smile hidden between your legs. Not even after all the nights that his voice would give out, choking out your name with his face buried against your neck, did you ever consider telling him how you felt about him, certain that he could never feel the same way about you.

You had no choice but to gather the mismatched edges of your heart and put them in your pocket with the rest of your memories. Even if, every time you dreamt of him now, another splinter lodged itself between your ribs. There was no going back; you had every reason to forget him. Maybe one day you could.

The first place that hired you was a Medcenter. Rundown and short-staffed, they’d raised an eyebrow at your ID chip but took you on the spot. Not the low profile you were hoping for but this was the last place he’d come. His people weren’t exactly the medical attention-seeking type. You even used the name he didn’t know. A name you’d not used since you were a child.

By the time word reached him, you’d been gone more than a month. After that, it took him two days.

//

It had been a long night, after a string of long nights. You pull up the holo for the last patient of your shift and skim the file, not finishing up until well after the morning shift came on to relieve you.

The suns begin to rise when you finally sling your bag over your shoulder saying goodbye to your colleagues, winding your way through the empty streets towards the edge of town. The whole way home something odd tugs at your awareness, a nagging sensation that you cannot place. The streets are usually quiet at this hour but something feels off and you don’t have the energy to look around for a reason as you climb the narrow stone stairs to your little rented room, anxious for a shower and your bed, thankful you finally have three days off.

Punching the code, the door hisses open, and you step inside, the sharp smell of blaster grease stopping you in your tracks. Your heart skids before your brain can catch up; you’d know that scent anywhere. You’d be able to pick him out of a sea of thousands. And he knows it, did it on purpose; he wants you to know he’s here. Your skin prickles even before your eyes land on the rifle sitting on the table, also placed intentionally, and lastly his hulking shiny presence in the corner.

The door hisses shut behind you, sealing you off from the rest of the world, returning the room to its previously darkened state, save for the single window above your bed.

You see two new scratches on his chest plate and a line of scoring runs down his left pauldron. He’s low on cartridges for his rifle, the cape has a brand new tear, but his gloves were freshly cleaned and so was his blaster, which meant necessity had demanded it. And well, you knew what that meant.

He looks exhausted.

And it’s your fault he’s here, making your tiny room feel even smaller and suddenly too fucking warm and you can’t stop the selfish relief that floods your veins at the sight of him; not a shred of your previous fatigue even existed now in his presence. You try and gather your thoughts, prepare yourself for what’s coming because the tension radiating off him is fierce and whatever is about to happen probably isn’t good; you hope your face doesn’t show how rattled you are.

“You look like shit Djarin.”

Silence.

You turn away from him and drop your bag next to his rifle on the table. Not until you unzip your jacket, do you realize your hands are shaking.

“Are you happy here?”

His voice stops you.

You’d expected irritation, harshness; you expected… you don’t know what you expected. Instead, you heard resignation. Defeat. Whatever defence you’d summoned died on your tongue. You do not expect him to keep talking either.

But he does.

“I realized… that I’d never asked you if you were happy, before. It was unfair of me to assume you were.”

Stomach twisting again, you’re thrown by the weariness of his voice. Your gaze lifts to the black shape of his visor where his eyes are and your mouth goes dry. There is a violent thrashing in your ears and it takes you too long to realize it’s your own pulse.

“I want you to be happy. And I know that’s not an easy thing to do, with me.”

Your nerves suddenly ache with the grief you’d not been not conscious of until now, a misery you’d worn since you’d left last month and not once admitted, only to be swiftly replaced with a bitter sludge of agony and guilt. You want to slip your hands in the spaces between the beskar and nestle your face against his cowl. You want to fill your head with the vibration of his voice, you want to fall asleep inside the crook of his arm, you want to tell him he’s a sight for sore eyes but you can’t because he looks like you’ve just taken a razor blade to his heart, leaving it to drip rust onto the floor, over the rest of his neglected parts.

“I want you to know,“ he continues, "if this is what you wish, you’ll never hear from me again, you have my word.” The words come out weak and way too fast, crackling through the modulator, piercing through all the details of your life that no one but him knew, through every single diary entry of him you’d ever inscribed in your head, all the things he’d trusted you with. His visor tilts away from you, towards a spot on the floor. Underneath that careful exhale, you hear the falter, barely a blip to an untrained ear, but to you it is jarring. Your heart seizes.

You cannot imagine the amount of fuel and credits it took for him to reach this place. The man never did anything that wasn’t necessary. And all he wanted was to make sure you were happy? He came all this way to ask if you were okay?

You blink furiously, trying to keep the shape of him from blurring before your eyes but you can’t because your throat is suddenly lined with tears, all your effort is spent on swallowing them down. You’d been pathetically naïve to think the further away you were, the less you’d feel for him.

“Are you happy… here…,” he asks a second time, his voice strained and thick like there’s a painful lump in his throat that matches yours. (He has to stop himself from finishing his thought out loud, _‘without me.’_ )

For some reason you cannot shake the image of him standing in your empty doorway, cape swishing as he turned around, realizing you were gone. What you didn’t know was that he’d been so numb with fear at that moment, that he’d ripped your door clean off its mechanism.

“This place,” he stepped closer to you, visor sweeping over your room, landing on the window, where your only view was the dull flat exterior of the building next door, “Is this truly what you want?”

_No._

_It’s not._

He’s so close now, soft leather and smoky metallic infuses the air in your nose, distilling it on the back of your tongue. The taste of him blushes down your throat, curling warm, saturating your lungs, burning, bright and potent and _fucking_ euphoric like some cruel high you’d only ever reached within a dream for the last month. You can’t think straight with him so close. You can’t breathe and speak at the same time, don’t know how much longer you can last without crumbling. You can’t resist the pull of him, the gravity, you can’t ignore how the jagged pieces of your dreams always knit themselves back together whenever he showed up. Even here, a place he’d never been. A place he shouldn’t be. You wouldn’t dare burden him with the shortcomings of your own imperfection. It was out of the question. It was better this way.

Two gloved fingers reach for your chin, the tenderness and heat radiating from him makes your skin flame, makes your eyes sting with longing.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper not trusting your voice, unable to lift your face, swallowing so hard you feel his leather move with the force of it. _I’m sorry I’m such a coward._

"Look at me,” his voice is calm and even now, gently lifting your face, “and tell me to leave.”

This was exactly why you couldn’t face him. You knew you’d never have the strength to tell him you no longer wanted his hands on you, you knew that once you saw him; you’d cave and give him anything he asked for. You only had one weakness in this life and he’d just ripped through seven sectors just to stand in your kitchen.

“Please say something,” he pleads. “Mesh'la, what do you need? Say the word. It’ll be done.”

“What… do I _need_?” you parrot back, voice strained. 

His glove drops away from your jaw, letting you continue.

“What I need is to stop worrying,” your voice trembles with the weight of your honesty. “What I need is to stop being so attached to you but… _I can’t,_ ”   
You hate how hard your heart is pounding, how watery you sound, how your words hitch on each breath, like some infatuated youngling pining after a first crush, but you cannot stop the words from tumbling out of your mouth, this colossal fear that despite him being armed with enough blades and explosives to take down an entire settlement, it would not be enough.

“The thought of- …I’m terrified that, one day you’ll leave and I’ll never see you again.” Angrily wiping the betrayal of your own emotions off your cheek, squeezing your eyes shut at the despair that clogs your throat and threatens to overwhelm you. “I can’t live with the thought of you bleeding out in some swamp somewhere and I… I’d never even know w-here to start looking.”  
By the time you finish blathering, he’s sunk down into the chair in front of you, the black line of his visor drooping. You think maybe he’s focused on your hands where they hang limply at your sides, or the stains on your shirt from a full night of tending to wounds or maybe he’s lost in his thoughts, not even seeing you at all. His body is completely still, except for one glove, his thumb worrying a spot on the inside of his other hand where it sits in his lap. Gods, his silence is making your heart pound painfully against your ribs.

Your eyes follow the grooves of his pauldrons, the planes of his chest plate where his cape is carefully pleated and tucked. You refuse to lift your eyes to the visor, afraid of what you’ll feel if you do. Afraid of not being strong enough to withstand the pressure of his boots when he walks away from you after this, when each step snaps the serrated pieces between your ribs. Because he will. Now that he knows exactly how weak you are. You grind your teeth together as your face begins to sting, regretting every word you’ve just spilled.

It takes him a long minute to say anything and then,

“That would never happen.”

Annoyance spikes in your veins, your brows crowding in on your forehead. _“How can you-,”_ your voice cracks and you have to clear your throat before you can speak again. “You don’t - you can’t KNOW that.”

“I don’t think you understand,” the modulator rasps softly.

“Don’t understand _what?_ ”

“I wouldn’t keep going, fighting as hard as I do, if you weren’t… here… waiting for me.”

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

He stands, the helmet catching the light as he steps towards you, soundless despite the bulky pieces and heavy weaponry of his creed. You know how much they weigh because he’d stood before you like this, watched patiently, affectionately, as your careful fingers felt for the correct spots, clipping each plate in place, connecting nodes, fastening buckles. Gentle hands tightening his belt and cinching his bandolier with smooth ease. Your fingers lingering at the nape of his neck, tucking in his cowl. Then reaching for the edge of his glove, pulling it back, pressing your lips to the exposed skin of his wrist, where his pulse fluttered for you; leaving him with an invisible mark, a hidden charm, a silent plea to keep his heart beating. Just like yours did. For him.

Your eyes are still caught by the black line of his eyesight as he comes to a stop. One breath is all it would take for your bodies to meet. Something painful is squeezing your heart but you do not have space in your head to think about it because there is soft leather sliding along the edge of your hand and a warm glove fits inside your palm.

“The only reason I keep going is that I know you’re still here… living.”

You want to crumble. Your heart wants to fly right out of your chest. He doesn’t let you look away.

"I’ll always come back to you,” his thumb rubs circles over your wrist. “Nothing could keep me away from this.”

His revelation hits you like a freighter, stopping all the air in the room. The longing in his voice makes your head spin, makes your chest flutter. The heavy shards that separate your ribs start to break and give way, the thaw filling up your lungs with a churning madness, pulling at a place in your chest you never thought existed. This man who, without exception, is your entire destruction, the winning and the losing battle swirling like a shipwreck in your chest; you’re going to drown in the undertow if you don’t start breathing soon.

He fills up your vision, crowding you, effectively blocking the bright sunlight from the window. Towering over you, his pauldrons slowly lift, bulging, as he cradles your face with both hands, tipping your head up. You can pinpoint the scent of his soap, unmistakable; even faded as it is, you want to drown in it. The most mundane of details, yet still so intimate. Because it’s him. His thumb traces your chin, the edge of his glove following your bottom lip.

Ice-cold beskar kisses your thighs, your chest, your shoulders.

His nearness makes your body hum. The throbbing in your veins is so sudden, it’s hard to breathe. The edge of the table bites into the bottom of your back. You welcome it.

You feel his glove run down the front of your open jacket, but the visor stays angled down, focused on your face. "Take this off.”

Gods. You’ve been addicted to that smooth voice, that demanding presence since day one. You crave him like this, possessive. You’re selfish. But so is he. Your jacket comes off your shoulders and you’re lurched closer together with the force of his hands as he loosens your pants, tugging them down with the same eagerness, that stare of his not moving an inch off you.

The cool surface of the table sings against your skin as you unsteadily set yourself on top and watch him crouch between your knees to yank your boots off. Your pants follow with the same haste, before he trails his gloves up your bare legs, lighting your skin on fire as he stands to his full height again. Standing there like this, he gazes down at you, at the soft worn leather on your exposed skin. The rapid stutter of your pulse registers on his sensors, beneath the helmet a smile tugs at his lips. Watching your lips part as you struggle to control the trembling impatience in your lungs, fixed on your mouth when your breath catches again. The sweet honey of your eyes contradicts the lingering graze of your tongue across your bottom lip. Your heated exhales fan the kindling under his skin as if the embers there even needed any coaxing. As if he wasn’t already a breath away from unravelling, completely boneless, the beskar too hot and too desperately tight to do anything but melt between your fingers. 

Dazed by the tempting scrape of your teeth, the wicked sheen on your lips, his mind conjures every soft wet filthy fucking sound you make when he’s deep in your mouth, throbbing and sloppy, and just like that, he’s done; his skin goes hot under the armour, pulsing in his ears, his own weighted breathing echoes in his helmet.

“You have no clue what you do to me.”

The space between you crackles with the pressing desperation to touch him, the cold metal so close. You want him so badly, your skin prickles hot, your thighs clench together uncomfortably, your nipples aching into hardened peaks. And you can no longer stand it. 

The dark flickering heat in your eyes pierces straight into his as you hook two fingers under his belt, tugging him snug between your legs. He obliges, cold armour digging into warm skin.

Tugging on his gloves, you pull them off one finger at a time. Freeing his wide calloused knuckles, you watch them disappear as he finds the fevered skin under your shirt, kissing every dip, every curve by memory alone. Your stunted breathing sends his head soaring even higher, pulling at a place deep in his stomach. His belt clangs as you work his pants open, a soft _‘oh-h fuck’_ scraping from the modulator when you slip both hands inside. Gods, he’s ridiculously hard. Hot breath surges out of your mouth at the thought of how fucking good he’d feel right now. Splitting you open. Slick and hard. The flare of heat is nearly unbearable when he grips you around the backs of your knees, prying you open, bare hands scorching your skin.

“Maybe, I do know.” The thick glide of him in your hands is devastating, sweat starts to bloom along your hairline. His hands are hungry on the inside of your thigh, two thick fingers infuriatingly close to where you need him. Your mind is blank with greed; if you just roll your hips a bit, you’ll-

“Sweet _f-ucking_ girl,” his hand inches to the one place he wants to drown, his voice like gravel, “You do not know.”

The modulator struggles under the weight of his voice because he can see how needy you are when he touches you like this, how the slightest pressure leaves you quivering and short of breath, so he coats two fingers in one achingly slow swipe, watching your mouth open in a soundless gasp, watching you clench just beyond his fingers. So eager for him. So fucking wet.

“You make me _need,_ ” his voice bottoms out on the last word, desperate, going right to your core, coiling low and sharp.

“And I never need anything,” his other hand, like steel, covering your grip on him. “From anyone.”

He can see how heavy he is in your hands, hates how fast this is going to be over, but he’s going to lose his grip on reality if he doesn’t fuck you right now.

His calloused fingers push and drag, focusing on one thing, coaxing every sinful sound out of you. You make me need echoes in your head and you realize you don’t need to breathe after all. There’s no room for words either because you’re off the table and backed up against the wall, one knee hiked up, trembling to keep it around the breadth of him. If he has his way, the other foot wouldn’t be touching the floor either and he’s nothing if not a man who does not get what he asks for. Hot skin against cold armour, your sweat is dripping onto his beskar when he tells you to keep your eyes open so he can see what he does to you, his bare fingers urging, going slow, on purpose, his filthy string of praises holding you right on the edge. You’re gasping his name and he knows. When you’re whimpering and impatient in that soft breathless voice, he knows, no one could ever fuck you like this. Like he does. 

He wants to tell you that you’re like some long lost dream, a dream where he slips his helmet off sinks to his knees and pulls you slick and sweet into this mouth until he drowns in your blissful heat and there is no air left in the galaxy and still, it would not be enough. You are the only thing that ruins him, the only thing he cannot live without. He wants to hold onto you like this forever, with one hand under your hip and the other in the space between the wall and the small of your back, like you were fucking made just for him, to fit every inch of him to perfection, dragging you through each release. He knows the effect he has on you, it spurs his own highs that much sharper, stronger.

The stars tangling behind your eyelids eventually subside as you float back down into your body, your shoulder blades melting into the rough plaster behind you, where you’re still suspended between the beskar and the wall. His helmet drops to the wall above your shoulder as he clings to you on shaky legs, struggling to catch his breath. Slowly bending his knees, he keeps you joined together as he crouches down, letting your back slide down the wall. Your heels touch the cold floor and he pulls you forward, his armour surrounding you on all sides, flush against his chest, keeping you splayed over his hips like he’ll dissolve if he doesn’t keep himself anchored inside you. The liquid smooth of his forehead gently holds you in place. Clinging to the nape of his neck, your fingers grip the warm skin under the cowl, the soft hair there. He sighs at the sensation, a deep gravelly sound that grounds you.

“I was afrai-d,” his ragged whisper catches on the last word as he gently wipes a bead of sweat from your temple, “you didn’t want this anymore.”

The heartache in his voice stabs into your chest and you shake your head, burying your face into the fabric below the helmet.

“You’re all I ever want,” your watery voice doesn’t reach higher than a whisper, but he hears it because his arms tighten around you. Your sweat isn’t the only thing making your face damp anymore.

Your bones turn from liquid into granite as exhaustion settles and you start to think maybe… maybe he’s been just as tethered to you as you’ve been to him all these years.

//

No longer encased with indestructible layers, he stands here in your 'fresher, no less impressive in only his underclothes and bare feet. Helmet still in place, sleeves pushed up, he activates the showerhead and waits with one palm underneath the steady stream of water. Looking up at him, he’s more beautiful than you ever remembered. Adrift in your own thoughts, his hand is like an anchor, reminding you he’s right here, standing inside the rest of your life. All wide shoulders, sloping chest, patient hands and a calm voice; enough room for you to hide inside the circle of his arms. How could you stand here with him and not be strengthened by him? 

You’re too drained to object when he wordlessly peels your shirt off and helps you step under the water. The blissful heat makes your eyes even heavier as it hits your skin. He leaves you there to soak, only to reappear a moment later, bare from the waist up with the exception of his helmet and his shiny chain with the hammered-silver pendant. The first thing that catches your eye is a new scar on his arm, right above his elbow. The sight of a new wound always set off an immediate visceral pang in your chest; by reflex, one finger reaches out to the puckered pink line where the skin knit itself back together. You’re not sure what he sees on your face when you lift your eyes to his helmet, but his soothing, _'just a vibro,’_ means to dispel your worry; he reaches up and squeezes your hand where it’s still lingering over the scar as if to say, 'it’s nothing.’

He drops his undershirt on the corner of the sink and steps close enough to reach for your shampoo but stays on the other side of the shower partition, mostly clear of the cascading water. The pounding heat combined with his gentle fingertips working your scalp melts every bone in your body into butter and you let him stand there and wash you.

You’re too tired to comment on how the water beads on the helmet and sprays over the freckles on his shoulders, making tracks down the angles of his chest through the dark sprinkling of hair. He doesn’t seem to care that the low waistband of his pants is collecting water, darkening in little patches. Large soapy hands make you feel like a rag doll as he turns you around, digging his thumbs in little circles around your shoulder blades, down either side of your spine.

He takes his time.

Slowly kneading around the two dimples at the crest of your hips, and you are leaning against the wall, eyes closed, utterly _slack_ by the time his hands make their way back up to the slope of your neck and the base of your skull. Little by little, he works out the tension from every fibre of your back. Slow gentle hands reaching around you, scrubbing every inch of your skin, he is perfectly content to just stand here with soap dripping from his elbows. You feel tears sting the corners of your eyes at the care he takes. The rising steam sticks to your eyelashes, the taste of salt mixing with the hot water. How could you ignore this ledge you were standing on now. Gripping furiously with all your toes as the air whipped around you, so deafening it made breathing impossible. Even if you could speak, the words would not reach your ears as you fought to stay upright above the fast-moving water. With nothing to steady you but the solid hands of the man who took the long way here, determined to climb to this altitude, with absolutely no regard for the thin air, without straps or safeties, despite the paralyzing mist and slippery overhangs. Even if he knew it would leave his hands raw and bleeding. Just to ask if you wanted to jump back down. Just so you wouldn’t have to do it alone.

How did you ever think you could live without him?

He swivels you around to face him, tipping your head back, splaying his palms carefully, he guides the suds away from your eyes.

The steam is thick and the hot water is dwindling by the time he shuts the water off. Reaching for the thickest fuzziest towel, he swipes it down his visor, wiping down his chest and arms before holding it out for you, wiping the water from your back, wrapping it and securing it under your arms.

//

You emerge from the ‘fresher to the smell of fresh caf filling the whole apartment. Shirtless, your Mandalorian is a sight, as you watch him collect fruit from the chiller and sweet rolls from the bread box in the corner, filling a single plate. Pants hanging from his hips, pooling around his ankles, he moves around your tiny kitchen with comfortable ease like he’s been doing it for years, and maybe he has. It sends your heart swelling against your ribcage. You watch him, arms crossed underneath your ribs, a tender smile on your face.

Reaching for a mug to pour from the press, Din turns to find you leaning one hip against the counter. Dressed in nothing but his undershirt.

It takes him a beat too long to remember he’s holding a mug in his hand for you.

Long after you thank him for the caf, fondly wrapping your hands around the steaming contents, he stands there, visor fixed on you. The heat erupting across your skin has nothing to do with the hot ceramic in your hand and everything to do with the way he’s standing there leaning one hand on the counter and the other on his hip. The visor hides nothing as it tilts, _shamelessly,_ following your bare legs, to where the neck of his shirt sits askew exposing your collarbone, how the sleeves were too baggy so you had to push them up to your elbows, how the threadbare hem doesn’t quite cover the swell of your ass. You were naked before him not a few minutes ago, but now, under his gaze, he makes you feel like this is the hottest fucking thing he’s ever seen.

“C 'mere,” the soft demand goes straight to a certain delightful soreness that he alone can summon with exactly one word.

He watches you lean in and leave a kiss on his chest, before trailing your fingers over the bulge of his shoulder as you slip around him. Reaching up, you gently place your mouth on the nape of his neck and _ohh,_ the sound he makes is sweeter than paradise. His breath stutters as you suck short kisses down the valley of his spine. Yeah, you could get used to this. Slowly, you map freckle after freckle with your mouth, watching his skin pebble with each new spot, gradually making your way back to his chest.

Wide fingers clutching the rim of your cup, he places it back on the counter, sliding it out of the way, giving both your hands the freedom to roam across the warm expanse of skin, following the path of hair that disappears under the waistband of his pants. Your fingers dance over his hipbone where he’s absurdly, invitingly, warm. His breath catches and his hips seize as he struggles to control the effect you have on him

“I like _this,_ on you.” he rasps. His thumb finds a nipple already hard through the fabric of his shirt, then another.

If you were capable of coherent thought at that moment you would have voiced your agreement but instead, your finger hooks under the pendant sitting on his chest. Using the chain, you pull him forward, your tongue meeting the vein along the bottom of his neck, teeth catching lightly as you pull off. Another sharp intake of breath crackles as his body reacts to two insistent hands curling and gripping and dragging. He curses in his other language, so faintly the modulator barely picks it up and it’s as delicious as the possessive demand of his hand on the bottom of your back. Your breakfast is forgotten.

//

You wake sweetly, slowly, engulfed in a cocoon of warmth. In front of your eyelids, it’s pitch black so you burrow deeper into your pillow and the warmth seems to follow you as you roll over onto your side. Drifting in and out of consciousness, bits and pieces of a blissful dream float through your awareness. His voice had felt so real like he’d been sitting right here, the heavy warmth of his hand pressing on your thigh, _‘Sleep sweetheart, when you wake up I’ll still be here’_

In your sudden haste to hang on to his voice, to keep him here, you reach for his arm with a sharp inhale, your heart beating in your throat. The room is completely dark, except for the dull illumination glowing from the emergency panel on the wall in the ‘fresher.

“It’s okay.” Without the distortion of the modulator, his voice unfurls feather-soft against your neck. “I’m right here.”

Now your eyes are wide-open and for one wild second, you’re afraid you’re still dreaming. But the warm arm draped over you is no illusion. He’s still here, tucked around you, holding you as close as possible. You’re still wearing his shirt.

_And all you can feel is the warm press of his mouth on your neck._

Your sigh is high-pitched and way too breathy as relief washes over you. Sinking into the long contours of his bare limbs, you pull his arm tighter around you.

“Hi,” he whispers back, the soft tickle of his mustache on your shoulder, his hand softly seeking your bare thigh.

Shifting to your side, you face him and stretch long and languid, your legs tangling together. Reaching for his cheek, you find the scruffy angle of his jaw. 

“This is nice,” you whisper, afraid to disturb the sleepy darkness that blankets you. You’ve never had the luxury of waking up beside him before; you’ve never had _this._

“Yeah.”

“I like it.”

Dragging the tip of his nose down your cheek, his mouth hovers.

 _“Kiss me.”_ His whisper simmers with urgency.

Slipping your hand behind his neck, you indulge him, basking in the silky weight of his mouth. The drowsy sweep of his tongue. His mouth moves achingly slow, overlapping your bottom lip, then pulling off, unhurried, as if his only concern is to sample you. Bit by bit. Swallowing your flavour. Leaving your senses buzzing. Trembling. Aching for more. His hands roam like tendrils, encircling your softness, his limbs entwining with yours. His single-minded appetite for you leaves you both in a haze, noses pressed alongside each other’s, breathing hard, a soft moan slipping out with his exhale before he lifts his jaw and he captures your mouth again.

“My brain cuts out when you kiss me like that." 

"Yeah?” you breathe, _“Good.”_

He is intoxicating. The more you taste him, the more you want; you’ll never get your fill.

He smells of your cinnamon mouthwash and your milky shampoo. His hair is longer than last time, still damp in places, long enough to twirl around your fingers. Several hours have passed since you’d fallen asleep and your heart twinges because you know he hasn’t slept, not here. You hope that at least, he’d eaten something while you were dreaming of broad shoulders and golden skin and kitchen counters. His helmet sits on the chair beside the bed, along with the rest of his armour, but you can’t see it in the darkness.

“You showered.”

His mouth scrapes over your neck, pressing into your pulse and pulling off your skin with a wet sugary sound so obscene, your skin ignites on the spot.

“Yeah,” his voice is a little rough and a little soft and it knocks your pulse sky high. “I did.”

He punctuates each phrase with a new wet spot and the delightful drag of his stubble. “Fuck, you taste good.”

Your body obeys embarrassingly fast. Dizzy from his mouth, your head lolls into the pillow. His hand slides along your waist, sneaking underneath your shirt, lifting it, exposing you to the cool air. _And his mouth._

Your fingers tangle in the roots of his hair; his low whine, bliss to your ears. Maybe this _is_ a dream.

“Din…”

“I love it when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say my name.” he leans into your touch, and you lose yourself in his mouth again until he’s as light-headed as you are.

In the darkness, he has free reign with no helmet and you need no persuasion when he rolls you onto your back with a hand behind your knee. Hovering over you, his mouth leaves wet kisses down your stomach. Your hands tousle in his hair again so he crawls back up to kiss you, slow and sluggish. His hand slips between your bodies, one finger, and then two, like satin, softly dragging, circling, seeking every inch of you. You arch into his touch, melting into his mouth. He breaks away from your kiss only for you to hear the wet slide of his fingers against his tongue. The hungry sound you hear from the back of his throat makes your head swim. Mustache scraping up the insides of your thighs, he holds them open, bending you in half, continually pulling his name out of your mouth over and over.

//

This bed is smaller than your last one, but neither of you seems to mind. His eyelashes, soft as petals against your chin as he nuzzles into you. Your hand follows the rough patches along his jaw up to this mouth, where the layer of scruff has been trimmed to fit the shape of his top lip. “Have I ever told you that I like this… on you?”

Underneath your hand, his mouth widens into a grin, “You’ve said that to me thirty-one times.”

There is a beat of silence as you process his soft earnestness. Your heart melts.

“Not nearly enough, then,” you say softly with your lips against the corner of his mouth.

“No,” with his hand around your hip, he curves himself over you, nipping under your jaw, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress. “Not.. _nearly_ enough,” he repeats, a raspy edge to his voice and he no longer means the sum of your admiration.

You stay like this, wrapped up in him, hoping the minutes drag and stop altogether before he has to leave. The night stretches on, the steady rhythm of his breathing suspending you to the point where you’re not sure where you end and he begins. Your fingers travel over the line of thick scar tissue on his elbow, absently tracing the new scar along his bicep, and then up over his shoulder, over the spot on the edge of his shoulder where years ago, a blade had nicked between the beskar on his body; you know all of them by heart.

“I dreamt that I left here with you.” the words come out before you can stop them.

At your quiet remark, his breathing cuts out and his hand stops its upward trail over your arm. The slow crawl of embarrassment starts eating away at your throat, heating up the back of your neck. Then his arm tightens around you, and he exhales, lips pressing into your forehead.

Hearing you say those words fills his heart with a wild fluttering. He’d never admit all the times he’d wanted nothing more than to have you on his ship with him. He’d never even allowed himself to hope there was a chance you’d want the same thing. Your trust in him to be there for you, whenever you’d need him. A trust so desperate his chest aches with it.

“I would never ask you to give anything up for me,” he pauses with a careful breath.

Something warm glimmers in your stomach, like a jar of honey sitting in the sun. Glowing. Full of light. Tempting you. You try to imagine a life with him, having this, having him next to you every day. It wasn’t even a question. Two sturdy arms around you make you question why you’d ever want to be anywhere else but with him.

You lift your face, hesitant. “You’d want this.”

You cannot quite handle the quaking surge that gets stuck in your airway when his hand finds the back of your head, warm and solid. _“Yes,”_ he murmurs into your mouth, “I would.”

“Where would we go?”

“Anywhere,“ he coaxes your mouth open, “where do you wanna go?”

Sliding your hand into his hair, you struggle to control your breathing when his mouth is working down your neck like this.

“What if I… we, went back home?”

Underneath the quilt, he slots your hips together, sliding his hand up the back of your thigh, squeezing the curve of your ass.

"If we’re going back there, you’re gonna need a new door.”

“A new… what. Why.”

“Remind me to tell you about that tomorrow,” he lifts your knee further over his hip, nestling himself between your legs, redirecting your attention to the unbearable flush of heat and the enticing notion of.

 _His_ bed. _His_ ship.

“So, is that a yes?“

You aim for some sort of dry indecision, not sure if your voice is convincing enough but you’re unable to resist ruffling some of his feathers. “In your ship, huh?”

“What…,” he protests playfully, “s’ there a problem with my ship.”

You sniff. “Well, I’m fond of the guy that pilots it… I guess.”

 _“You guess..?”_ His smile is infectious even if you cannot see it.

You’re already giggling by the time he squeezes the softest spot under your ribs, earning himself a full fit of giggles from you as you struggle to pry his hand free. Twisting in the blankets, you squirm and knock him with a knee by reflex, laughing at his low growly chuckle. Eventually, he lets you grab his arm, rolling him flat on his back.

Bending your knees, you straddle his hips anchoring him between your thighs.

“What’s it gonna take to convince you to leave this place and come with me,” he prods.

You hum and roll your hips purposely against his. His sharp inhale melts into a broken groan as you bend forward and drag your tongue along his bottom lip.

"I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Squeezing the supple warmth of your hips, his legs shift underneath you and he sits up, staying flush against your chest, chasing your mouth.

Moaning eagerly, you feel the ridges of his cock slide, heavy and thick, over every tender spot where you’re splayed for him. He rocks your hips together. It is heavenly.

“Maybe…,” breath stuttering between your thoughts, “stars, maybe, if I could stop fucking you… maybe, we’d _nnhhg,_ be able to sort this whole thing out.”

“You want me to stop?” he grins against your open mouth, his tongue glossing over yours, wet and hot.

“Keep kissing me like that and you can do whatever the fuck you want.” Your words ripple through him going straight to his cock, as if he wasn’t hard enough already. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s imagined you in his bed, fucking you in his ship.

His hands guide your hips from behind, whimpering pathetically against your neck when he feels how incredibly wet you are again, how you shudder for him when he carefully eases into your warmth, feeling you stretch little by little, how your voice wrecks when he keeps lifting you back up only to let you sink further and further, so gloriously slow. The sweet drag of him at this angle leaves you gasping for air, clenching hard around him, nails digging into the dips of his shoulders, and fisting in the roots of his hair.

His voice is filthy and insistent in your ear, his teeth catching on your neck, your nipples, sucking bruises, all heated skin and choked groans, his hips driving deep and slow, tripping over something exquisite that makes your eyes roll back in your head. Your high-pitched little moans turning into sobs as he reaches the end of you and keeps you there.

'So _f-ucking_ good for me,’ his praise burns a hole straight into you, and gods you’re delirious. You’re unravelling and he knows it. Pushes you right to the blistering surface.

“You wanna cum for me don’t you,” his tongue flicks into your mouth and he groans again, low and demanding, _“come on.”_

His growl tips you over the edge, the words utterly blinding, consuming in their brightness, pulling you under with deafening white heat and you clamp down on his cock so hard that his breath stutters. _“Y- es._ Fuck, that’s my girl.”

His mouth smothers the cry that comes from your throat as you come undone and splinter into pieces, one after another. Floating over the aftershocks under his strong grip, he spills other beautiful things into your ear but you cannot make sense of them, drifting with you until you catch your breath.

You’re not even aware the world has spun around until you feel cool sheets against your back. Still joined together, you are flat on the mattress, whimpering and weak, chest heaving with each breath. His lips collect the sweat across your temple as he drags your wrists above your head. His knees splayed wide, he slips the other arm underneath your knee, pressing it into your chest. All his weight now sharpened down to one searing point of contact and sweet fucking gods, it is devastating, the intensity bringing stars to your eyes, he doesn’t even give you a chance to breathe much less gather a single word. The bed creaks under you with alarming force.

"Oh-h _fuck…_ y-es, fuck…" He’s bottomed out, drunk off the overwhelming grip of you. And he doesn’t fucking stop. Gushing incessantly, thrusting into you, cursing your name, your mouth slides wet against his tongue. "S-o fucking _good_ like this-" 

He needs more. He needs everything you’re giving him. He needs your back arching off the bed, your high-pitched broken gasp drowned out by his growl against your neck. You feel the rumble of it light up all the way down your spine, brushing that magnificent spot with every thrust. It builds, rolling and heavy and hot, pulling at you from the inside, tighter and tighter around him. He needs your wrists straining against his one-handed grip and when you gasp his name, you’re lost; there is no warning this time when everything inside you fractures again. "That’s…it, _good girl…_ f-uck _that’s my girl.”_ He pants, chasing your overwhelming bliss with each hard thrust. Only then does he relinquish his hold above your head, letting your hands sink into his hips, mindlessly grabbing for whatever you can, letting you take what you need as you shudder and whimper and quiver beneath him. 

His voice brings you back, his ragged breathing, “I’ve got you my girl,” hovering over your mouth, “I’ve got you.”   
His hand finds yours where you cling to his chest, locking your fingers together, tucking your hand safely against the rhythm of his heart, grounding you. His other hand keeps your knee against his hip, cradling himself between your legs. 

Clutching the rock-solid swell of his hip, you grind him deeper, need him to keep going. _“D-on’t stop,”_ you plead, you’ve been reduced to shreds and nothing’s ever felt so good. _“Please,”_

His focus slips, at last, his voice finally breaks, ‘f-uck, _ohhhfuck,’_ growling, broad shoulders hard as marble, crowding you. The top of your head grazes the wall with the force of him, unaware of his own strength. Surrendering himself to his own stuttering release in a beautiful mess of strangled curses, tensing and spilling. His rough jaw and soaked hair against your shoulder, groaning and desperate, and all but _gone._ The long cords of his back bunch and strain under your hands as you cling him. Dragging every trace of his pleasure into you until you’re both boneless and shaking.

His skin is slick where you reach for him, his messy damp curls tickling your forehead as you both struggle to breathe in the close air of the room. His forearm comes down beside your head and a warm hand sweeps across your forehead as you pull him down to your mouth. His pulse still jumps erratically as he eventually sinks into the mattress beside you, slurring a weak groan, his hand never leaving you. You’re not sure how much time passes, but eventually, the room stops pulsing around you. The bed dips when he leaves, coming back with a warm cloth to clean you up. He adjusts the blankets and covers you both up.

His lips are gentle on your mouth, his fingertips feather-light down your ribs, “You okay.”

The care in his voice makes your heart lurch.

“With you,” nuzzling your face into his neck, “that’s never a question you have to ask.”

You do not see the delighted little smirk on his face at the sound of your raspy spent voice. He fits you against his chest, basking in the sweet scent of your skin, savouring your hand trailing slow and soft up his back. He wraps himself inside your peaceful breathing, covers himself your glow.

//

Still blissfully tangled together with your fingers lazily combing through his hair, something occurs to you. “Can you tell me something?”

“Of course.”

“How… did you find me?”

“Sweetheart,” the sound he makes is light and playful, “you still don’t know what I do.”

“I know, but how?”

“That piece of bantha-fodder who runs the tower…” his breath fanning across your neck and then delightfully lower, “…was easily persuaded.”

You know that’s as many details as he’ll give you, so you drop it because you’re already thinking about how to broach the next question.

“Din,“ his name melts lovingly inside your mouth.

"Hmm.”

“During all these years… I had no way to ever reach you, and I- well,” you pause carefully, licking your lips. Your pillow dips, his head next to you, calm and close, He stays quiet, waiting for you to organize your thoughts. 

“It’s not that I needed a way to reach you, but… what if something happened to me? How would you have known if something was wrong?”

His amused little puff against your temple gives you the feeling you’re missing something painfully obvious. Under the quilt, his arm presses around your waist, possessive, protective.

“Oh my girl, you were safe,” he whispers with conviction into your hairline. “I made sure of it.”

Your brain struggles to catch up to what he’s alluding to. Your eyes search the dark space in front of you, wide with sinking realization.

Seeking your hand, his fingers lace between yours, his thumb drawing slow circles around one of your knuckles. He inhales calmly, his next words slow, deliberate.

“Did you think I’d be able to walk away from you each time and leave you unprotected?” His voice, softer than you’ve ever heard it, “Did you think I would _ever_ take a risk like that?”

The sound of your swallow is deafening in the darkness. Your heart starts beating inside your throat again. Your entire chest caves in with the effort to breathe. You can’t breathe. You can’t…

You are.

Overcome.

Shifting on the pillows, you turn to him in the dark, speechless. Gentle fingers stroke your hair, find the length of your spine, stopping on each knob on the way down but you don’t register it because your brain is whirling in circles. You had no idea. After more than five years there you left, and you had no idea. You didn’t even want to imagine the measures he took, to see that no harm would come to you. What he was capable of.

“I- I thought you knew,” he continues, his voice almost sad now as he gently nudges his nose along yours. “ I thought you knew that I protect those… I love.”

The impact of his words knocks into your chest. They sink into your system, the force of it shattering you, shaving the entire planet clean off its center of gravity. It is a moment of staggering clarity. You knew the sorrow in his heart. His love had not been enough to protect his parents all those years ago. He couldn’t save them from the harm that came for them. And now? He was trying to do everything in his power to see that he didn’t lose you. Your bottom lip begins to tremble and you are unable to stop it.

This man you loved, this man among men, who deserved every good thing the stars had to offer and then some. You’ve never loved someone like this. You’ve never. Loved. And they’ve never said it back to you.

You wonder if there’s ever been anyone else with a stroke of fate this incredible, to be considered worthy of his protection; you wonder whom else he’s loved in this life.

As though sensing the direction of your thoughts, he shifts beside you, taking your clammy shaking hands, placing them on either side of his face. Your fingertips trace his cheekbones, up into the soft hair at his temples bringing him closer. His warm brow gently presses into yours and a crushing surge of adoration floods your veins.

“I’ve never taken this off for anyone else.”

If the soft timbre of his voice left any room for doubt in your head, the way he kissed you, definitely did not.

It’s… 

_It’s too much._ Heart pounding against your ribs, you try to keep a sob from raking up your throat but you cannot stop it. The dark swims before your eyes and you feel your face crumple. There would never be anyone else for you. Only him.

His arms close around you. “I’m sorry that I made you doubt my feelings for you.”

“No, Din-…,” your attempt to overturn his qualms go soundless, as sobs hitch high in your throat.

“This is my fault,” the sadness in his voice breaks your heart. "There isn’t a fucking thing I wouldn’t do for you.”

He wipes the raw emotion dripping down your cheeks with gentle fingertips before they hit the pillow. “I’d rearrange the stars for you.”

“Stop… D-in,’ your frayed voice catches again as your fingers find the nape of his neck, squeezing, “you have me, I’m yours, I’ve always been yours.”

“No. I won’t stop.” He holds your face, his lips making promise after promise, magenta sunlight cascading into your heart. “I’ll never stop telling you.”

//

His gloves are still crumpled on the table where they fell yesterday. Gods, that seemed like months ago now as you look at the room around you. Your Mandalorian is sitting on your bed fastening your bag, already filled with your meagre belongings. Snatching the gloves off the table for him, something shiny falls out of one of them, pinging to the floor.

Staring up at you is a little oval in the same reddish sheen as his armour with delicate markings on it, a pendant.

“What’s this?”

“I- it’s for you,“ a breath of static from the helmet. "I was gonna give it to you when I got here yesterday, but… I-.”

Picking up the trinket, you turn it over in your palm and see a series of numbers engraved on the back.

"Are these… coordinates?” You look up to see the visor fixed on your face, motionless.

“Yeah,” the vocoder crackles soft, almost shy, “the place we met.”

You blink, thinking back. A lifetime ago, to the inn where chance and circumstance and bloodshed had brought you together. Unable to hide your smile at the old memory now blooming gentle and warm in your chest, “All the other days we’ve had and that’s the place you memorialize?”

A chuckle presses out of the modulator. “Hey, it’s not every day an angry innkeeper throws three daggers straight into your farmoral artery, and you live to tell about it.”

“It’s FEMoral artery, and that night, that angry innkeeper had yet to learn you were on her side,“ your eyes follow the clefts and hollows of his helmet, where it reflects the sunlight from the window. "She wasn’t exactly thrilled that her inn was on fire, what did you expect.”

“Oh right,” his bare hand reaches for you, tenderly pulling you into his lap. You hear the smile in his voice as it deepens into liquid sugar. “That must have been why she fucked me in the alley that same night.”

The image he places in your mind blazes heavy, like hot caramel melting down your spine and you are incapable of suppressing the lovesick curve of your mouth, eyeing him through the top row of your lashes. You’re not sure if it will ever quite sink in that he’s yours. 

“Reducing a larger-than-life Mandalorian to his knees?” you contend. “Not every day she had that kind of advantage… she took her chances, even if she lost everything else.”

“I know,” he squeezes your hip, affection thick through the modulator, “and I’ve been trying to make it up to her ever since.”

~~

**Author's Note:**

> update: you can read more about these two idiots in [would you let me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27566683) \- with hopefully more to come.
> 
> if you're still here reading, please know that i love you (and I'm sorry)


End file.
